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Yet oft by stealth a timid glance she cast,
And now with playful step the mirror pass'd,
Each bright reflection brighter than the last!
And oft behind it flew, and oft before;
The more she search’d, pleased and perplex'd

the more ! And look'd and laugh'd, and blush'd with

quick surprise! Her lips all mirth, all ecstasy her eyes !

But soon the telescope attracts her view: And lo, her lover in his light canoe Rocking, at noontide, on the silent sea, Before her lies! It cannot, cannot be. Late as he left the shore, she linger'd there, Till, less and less, he melted into air ! Sigh after sigh steals from her gentle frame, And say—that murmur - was it not his

name? She turns, and thinks, and, lost in wild

amaze, Gazes again, and could for ever gaze!

Samuel Rogers.-Born 1762, Died 1855.

Long on the deep the mists of morning lay,
Then rose, revealing as they rolld away
Half-circling hills, whose everlasting woods
Sweep with their sable skirts the shadowy

floods : And say, when all, to holy transport given, Embraced and wept as at the gates of Heaven, When one and all of us, repentant, ran, And, on our faces, bless'd the wondrous man; Say, was I then deceived, or from the skies Burst on my ear seraphic harmonies ? “Glory to God!” unnumber'd voices sung, "Glory to God!” the vales and mountains

rung, Voices that hail'd creation's primal morn, And to the shepherds sung a Saviour born. Slowly, bareheaded, through the surf we

bore The sacred cross, and, kneeling, kiss'd the

shore. But what a scene was there! Nymphs of

romance, Youths graceful as the fawn, with eager

glance, Spring from the glades, and down the alleys

peep, Then headlong rush, bounding from steep to

steep, And clap their hands, exclaiming as they run, "Come and behold the children of the Sun !" When hark, a signal shot! The voice, it

came Over the sea in darkness and in flame ! They saw, they heard ; and up the highest

hill, As in a picture, all at once were still ! Creatures so fair, in garments strangely

wrought, From citadels, with Heaven's own thunder

fraught, Check'd their light footsteps_statue-like they

stood As worshipp'd forms, the Genii of the Wood! At length the spell dissolves! The warrior's

lance Rings on the tortoise with wild dissonance ! And see, the regal plumes, the couch of state ! Still where it moves the wise in council wait! See now borne forth the monstrous mask of

gold, And ebon chair of many a serpent-fold ; These now exchanged for gifts that thrice

surpass The wondrous ring, and lamp, and horse of

brass. What long-drawn tube transports the gazer

home, Kindling with stars at noon th' ethereal

dome! 'Tis here : and here circles of solid light Charm with another self the cheated sight; As man to man another self disclose, That now with terror starts, with triumph

glows ! Then Cora came, the youngest of her race, And in her hands she hid her lovely face ;

1183.–GINEVRA. If thou shouldst ever come by choice or

chance To Modena, where still religiously Among her ancient trophies is preserved Bologna's bucket (in its chain it hangs Within that reverend tower, the Guirlandine), Stop at a palace near the Reggio-gate, Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini. Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace, And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses, Will long detain thee; through their arch'd

walks, Dim at noonday, discovering many a glimpse Of knights and dames, such as in old romance, And lovers, such as in heroic song, Perhaps the two, for groves were their delight, That in the spring-time, as alone they sat, Venturing together on a tale of love, Read only part that day. A summer sun Sets ere one half is seen; but, ere thou go, Enter the house-prithee, forget it not And look awhile upon a picture there.

'Tis of a lady in her earliest youth, The very last of that illustrious race, Done by Zampieri—but by whom I care not. He who observes it, ere he passes on, Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again, That he may call it up, when far away.

She sits, inclining forward as to speak, Her lips half-open, and her finger up, As though she said “Beware!” Her vest of

gold 'Broider'd with flowers, and clasp'd from head

to foot,
An emerald-stone in every golden clasp ;
And on her brow, fairer than alabaster,
A coronet of pearls. But then her face,

So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth,

By one as young, as thoughtles as Ginevra, The overflowings of an innocent heart "Why not remove it from its lurking place ?" It haunts me still, though many a year has 'Twas done as soon as said ; but on the way fied,

It burst, it fell ; and lo, a skeleton, Like some wild melody!

With here and there a pearl, an emeraldAlone it hangs

stone, Over a mouldering heir-loom, its companion, A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold! An oaken-chest, half eaten by the worm, All else had perished-save a nuptial ring, But richly carved by Antony of Trent

And a small seal, her mother's legacy, With Scripture-stories from the life of Christ ; Engraven with a name, the name of both, A chest that came from Venice, and had held “Ginevra." There then had she found a The ducal robes of some old ancestor.

grave! That by the way-it may be true or false Within that chest had she conceal'd herself, But don't forget the picture ; and thou wilt not, Fluttering with joy the happiest of the When thou hast heard the tale they told me happy; there.

When a spring-lock that lay in ambush there, She was an only child; from infancy Fasten'd her down for ever! The joy, the pride of an indulgent sire. Her mother dying of the gift she gave,

Samuel Rogers. Born 1762, Died 1855. That precious gift, what else remain'd to him ? The young Ginevra was his all in life, Still as she grew, for ever in his sight; And in her fifteenth year became a bride, Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria, Her playmate from her birth, and her first

1184. --THE SLEEPING BEAUTY. love. Just as she looks there in her bridal dress, Sleep on, and dream of Heaven awhileShe was all gentleness, all gaiety,

Tho' shut so close thy laughing eyes, Her pranks the favourite theme of every Thy rosy lips still wear a smile tongue.

And move, and breathe delicious sighs! But now the day was come, the day, the hour ; Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth

Ah, now soft blushes tinge her cheeks time,

And mantle o'er her neck of snow: The nurse, that ancient lady, preached de

Ah, now she murmurs, now she speaks corum;

What most I wish-and fear to know ! And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave

She starts, she trembles, and she weeps! Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco.

Her fair hands folded on her breast :
Great was the joy; but at the bridal feast,
When all sat down, the bride was wanting

--And now, how like a saint she sleeps!

A seraph in the realms of rest! there. Nor was she to be found! Her father cried,

Sleep on secure! Above controul " 'Tis but to make a trial of our love !"

Thy thoughts belong to Heaven and thee: And fill'd his glass to all; but his hand And may the secret of thy soul shook,

Remain witlin its sanctuary! And soon from guest to guest the panic spread.

Samuel Rogers.-Born 1762, Died 1855. 'Twas but that instant she had left Francesco, Laughing and looking back, and flying still, Her ivory-tooth imprinted on his finger. But now, alas ! she was not to be found ; Nor from that hour could anything be guess'a But that she was not! Weary of his life,

1185.-A WISH. Francesco flew to Venice, and forthwith

Mine be a cot beside the hill ; Flung it away in battle with the Turk.

A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear; Orsini lived ; and long mightst thou have seen

A willowy brook that turns a mill, An old man wandering as in quest of some

With many a fall shall linger near. thing, Something he could not find-he knew not

The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch what.

Shall twitter from her clay-built nest ; When he was gone, the house remained awhile

Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch Silent and tenantless-then went to strangers.

And share my meal, a welcome guest. Full fifty years were past, and all forgot, When on an idle day, a day of search

Around my ivied porch shall spring Mid the old lumber in the gallery,

Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew; That mouldering chest was noticed ; and 'twas And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing said

In russet-gown and apron blue.

The village-church among the trees,
Where first our marriage-vows were given,
With merry peals shall swell the breeze,
And point with taper spire to Heaven.

Samuel Rogers.Born 1762, Died 1855.

1186.-AN ITALIAN SONG. Dear is my little native vale, The ring-dove builds and murmurs there; Close by my cot she tells her tale To every passing villager. The squirrel leaps from tree to tree, And shells his nuts at liberty. In orange groves and myrtle bowers, That breathe a gale of fragrance round, I charm the fairy-footed hours With my loved lute's romantic sound; Of crowns of living laurel weave For those that win the race at eve. The shepherd's horn at break of day, The ballet danced in twilight glade, The canzonet and roundelay Sung in the silent greenwood shade : These simple joys that never fail, Shall bind me to my native vale.

Samuel Rogers.-Born 1762, Died 1855.

The little brilliant, ere it fell,
Its lustre caught from Chloe's eye;
Then, trembling, left its coral cell -
The spring of Sensibility!
Sweet drop of pure and pearly light,
In thee the rays of Virtue shine ;
More calmly clear, niore mildly bright,
Than any gem that gilds the mine.
Benign restorer of the soul !
Who ever fliest to bring relief,
When first we feel the rude control
Of Love or Pity, Joy or Grief.
The sage's and the poet's theme,
In every clime, in every age ;
Thou charm’st in Fancy's idle dream,
In Reason's philosophic page.
That very law which moulds a tear,
And bids it trickle from its source,
That law preserves the earth a sphere,
And guides the planets in their course.

Samuel Rogers.--Born 1762, Died 1855.

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1187.—TO THE BUTTERFLY. Child of the sun! pursue thy rapturous

flight, Mingling with her thou lov'st in fields of

light; And, where the flowers of paradise unfold, Quaff fragrant nectar from their cups of

gold. There shall thy wings, rich as an evening

sky, Expand and shut with silent ecstasy! Yet wert thou once a worm, a thing that

crept On the bare earth, then wrought a tomb and

slept. And such is man; soon from his cell of clay To burst a seraph in the blaze of day,

Samuel Rogers.Born 1762, Died 1855.

1189.-LONDON, 1802.
Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour ;
England hath need of thee; she is a fen
Of stagnant waters; altar, sword, and pen,
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
Have forfeited their ancient English dower
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men;
Oh! raise us up, return to us again;
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.
Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart;
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the

Pure as the naked heavens-majestie, free,
So didst thou travel on life's common way
In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart
The lowliest duties on herself didst lay.

Wordsworth.-Born 1770, Died 1850.


WITH US. The world is too much with us; late and

soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our

powers : Little we see in nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid

boon! This sea that bares her bosom to the moon, The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gather'd now like sleeping flowers; For this, for everything, we are out of tune;

1188.-ON A TEAR. Oh that the chemist's magic art Could crystallise this sacred treasure ! Long should it glitter near my heart, A secret source of pensive pleasure.

It moves us not. Great God! I'd rather be
A pagan suckled in a creed ontworn :
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less

forlorn; Have sight of Proteus coming from the sea ; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

Wordsworth.-Born 1770, Died 1850.

She lived unknown, and few could know

When Lucy ceased to be ; But she is in her grave, and oh, The difference to me!

Wordsworth.--Born 1770, Died 1850.


CAMBRIDGE. Tax not the royal saint with vain expense, With ill-match'd aims the architect who

plann'd, Albeit labouring for a scanty band Of white-robed scholars only, this immense And glorious work of fine intelligence ! Give all thou canst ; high Heaven rejects the

lore Of nicely calculated less or more ; So deem'd the man who fashioned for the

sense These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof Self-poised, and scoop'd into ten thousand

cells, Where light and shade repose, where music

dwells Lingering—and wandering on, as loath to Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth

proof That they were born for immortality,

Wordsworth.-Born 1770, Died 1850.

1194.-A PORTRAIT. She was a phantom of delight When first she gleam'd upon my sight; A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes as stars of twilight fair ; Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn; A dancing shape, an image gay, To haunt, to startle, and waylay. I saw her upon nearer view, A spirit, yet a woman too! Her household motions light and free, And steps of virgin liberty; A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet; A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food; For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine ; A being breathing thoughtful breath, A traveller betwixt life and death; The reason firm, the temperate will, Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill, A perfect woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a spirit still, and bright, With something of an angel light.

Wordsworth.-Born 1770, Died 1850.

die ;

My heart leaps up when I behold

A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a man ;
So be it when I shall grow old,

Or let me die!
The child is father of the man;
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.

Wordsworth.-Born 1770, Died 1850.

1193.-LUCY. She dwelt among the untrodden ways,

Beside the springs of Dove,
A maid whom there were none to praise,

And very few to love.
A violet by a mossy stone,

Half hidden from the eye ;
Fair as a star when only one

Is shining in the sky.

1195.-TINTERN ABBEY. Five years have passid ; five summers, with

the length Of five long winters; and again I hear These waters, rolling from their mountain

springs With a sweet inland murmur. Once again Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, Which on a wild, secluded scene impress Thoughts of more deep seclusion, and connect The landscape with the quiet of the sky. The day is come when I again repose Here, under this dark sycamore, and view These plots of cottage ground, these orchard

tufts, Which, at this season, with their unripe

fruits, Are clad in one green hue, and lose them


Among the woods and copses, nor disturb
The wild green landscape. Once again I see
These hedgerows, hardly hedgerows, little

lines Of sportive wood run wild; these pastoral

farms Green to the very door; and wreaths of

smoke Sent up in silence from among the trees, With some uncertain notice, as might seem, Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, Or of some hermit's cave, where, by his fire, The hermit sits alone.

Though absent long, These forms of beauty have not been to me, As is a landscape to a blind man's eye: But oft, in lonely rooms, and ’mid the din Of towns and cities, I have owed to them, In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart, And passing even into my purer mind With tranquil restoration-feelings, too, Of unremember'd pleasure ; such, perhaps, As may have had no trivial influence On that best portion of a good man's life, His little, nameless, unremember'd acts Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, To them I may have owed another gift, Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood In which the burthen of the mystery, In which the heavy and the weary weight Of all this unintelligible world Is lighten'd; that serene and blessed mood In which the affections gently lead us on, Until the breath of this corporeal frame, And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul : While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things.

If this Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft, In darkness, and amid the many shapes Of joyless daylight, when the fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, Have hung upon the beatings of my heart, How oft in spirit have I turned to thee, O sylvan Wye!—thou wanderer through the

woodsHow often has my spirit turn'd to thee ! And now, with gleams of half-extinguish'd

thought, With many recognitions dim and faint, And somewhat of a sad perplexity, The picture of the mind revives again : While here I stand, not only with the

sense Of present pleasure, but with pleasing

thoughts That in this moment there is life and food For future years. And so I dare to hope, Though changed, no doubt, from what I was

when first I came among these hills; when, like a roe, I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides

Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams,
Wherever nature led : more like a man
Flying from something that he dreads, than

one Who sought the thing he loved. For nature

then (The coarser pleasures of my boyish days And their glad animal movements all gone

by) To me was all in all-I cannot paint What then I was. The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion; the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy

wood, Their colours and their forms, were then to

me An appetite; a feeling and a love That had no need of a remoter charm, By thought supplied, or any interest Unborrow'd from the eye. That time is

past, And all its aching joys are now no more, And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this Faint I, nor mourn, nor murmur; other

gifts Have follow'd, for such loss, I would believe, Abundant recompense. For I have learn'd To look on nature, not as in the hour Of thoughtless youth, but hearing often

times The still sad music of humanity, Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample

power To chasten and subdue. And I have felt A presence that disturbs me with the joy Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused, Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean, and the living air, And the blue sky, and in the mind of man; A motion and a spirit that impels All thinking things, all objects of all

thought, And rolls through all things. Therefore am I

still A lover of the meadows and the woods And mountains, and of all that we behold From this green earth; of all the mighty

world Of eye and ear, both what they half create And what perceive; well pleased to recognise In nature, and the language of the sense, The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, The guide, the guardian of my heart, and

soul Of all my moral being.

Nor, perchance,
If I were not thus taught, should I the more
Suffer my genial spirits to decay :
For thou art with me here, upon the banks
Of this fair river; thou, my dearest friend,
My dear, dear friend, and in thy voice I

The language of my former heart, and read
My former pleasures in the shooting lights
Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while

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